


covered in the colors, pulled apart at the seams

by thomasjeffersonsmacaroni



Series: The Other 51 [11]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, POV Second Person, could be interpreted as underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 12:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9322652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni/pseuds/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni
Summary: Your six bad relationships, plus one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually submitting this for a writing contest, only I'm renaming it "Colors." So it's still a Halsey reference, but I'm erring on the side of caution, copyright-wise.

**Red**

It is the color of your heart beating fast when you see him first as a new student in one of your classes. It is the color of your body when his hands brush absently against your skin (it's a habit of his, and every time he does it you love him more and more). It is the color of the roses he brings you after school one day, and the color of your face when you receive them, and the color of his lips when you kiss him that hot summer afternoon at the beach. It is the color of the blood on the bedspread he leaves after a few months of dating (not intentionally, he would never) and, in a slightly lighter hue, it is the color of the haze all around the two of you, lying in bed, as you wonder if this is what heaven feels like.

A month later, it is the color of the heart emoji that you sent him for the thousandth time, and the color of your shaking hands as you open the storage room. It is the color of his face. He is there, buttons on his polo undone, marks of the lipstick of the color you now so despise all over his skin.

It is the color of _her_ lipstick. She is there, too, dress coming close to slipping off.

It is the color of your screams, of the sobs that are too terrified of your anger to dare slip out, of the fact that he _dares_ to try to defend himself, of the fact that the girl is crying. It is the color of the blood spurting out of his nose as you punch him, and the color of your fist as you jerk it away and let it loose, shaking, by your side.

It was the color of the beginning, and it is the color of the end.

 

**Orange**

It is the color of her hair, short and curly and suiting her as you had never seen hair suit anyone before, and also the color of her lipstick. She's very original, she tells you when you first meet at an artist's gathering, or so she's been told. And it is the color of the fire that burns your heart and the edges of your vision and every single thought that you had ever had about yourself.

It is the color of the rocks in her Facebook photos. She climbs, she tells you when you ask her, with her father and her brother. She offers to take you along, too, someday, and you agree, despite the fact that you have always been deathly terrified of heights. But she'll grow you out of that, she tells you. She's grown loads of people out of it.

It is the color of the tangerine groves in her backyard. She invites you there one day, to read and relax and maybe paint. And the tangerines are ripe for picking, and that makes you love the experience that much more, because they have a zesty taste to them, and the two of you laugh and laugh as you get the juice all over your hands and clothes. And it is the color that you feel inside when you kiss her, and you know it's a strange color to associate with a kiss, but she is a very strange girl.

The color is poisoned when she pushes you away and calls you names that you will never repeat. And after that, your world is colorless for a long, long time.

 

**Yellow**

It is the color of her. You know that's not a good way to describe it, and her hair is dark as opposed to light, but she herself is infinitely glowing.

It is the color of her smile, of the way it's not only her mouth but her whole face and even her body that is happy, and the way she radiates joy wherever she goes. It is the color of her dresses that she always wears, and how she laughs as she twirls around, and how the dress twirls around with her, and how every time you look at her your heart skips thousands of beats.

It soon becomes the color of denial. Your first two loves ended badly, so why should this be any better? But even so, under pressure from your friends, it is the color of the roses you bring her, and it is the color of the sun shining through her hair, and the sand underneath your toes, as she kisses you.

She kisses you first. Your first loves never kissed you first. And it is the color of how your body shines when you realize that maybe this time, everything will work out perfectly.

It is the color of your hand slipping into hers as you take walks through the city. It is the color of her gentle giggle as you occasionally lean over to kiss her on the cheek. It is the color of everything good, of happiness, of love, of beauty, and you quickly realize that it is the color of everything you ever needed.

It is the color of the paper on which she writes the note, telling you that she is moving to Hawaii and therefore breaking up with you. When you cry on it, it only stains darker.

She never picks up the phone when you call her. You suspect that she blocked you.

 

**Green**

It is the color of his eyes.

They are big, and they shine like beams into you every time you see them. They seem all-knowing, almost, as if with just one glance they can dig into you and uncover your deepest, darkest secrets. He scares you, completely and utterly scares you, with how he probes into you. And what else terrifies you as you move onward and onward and onward in your relationship is how much you love him and how much, you're sure, he does not love you in return.

It is the color, in a particularly unappealing shade, of the college uniform that he wears while playing football. On the other men on the team, you would call it ugly, but it suits him surprisingly well. He is small for a football player, and scrawny too, but he is good, and on the rare occasions that you go to the games, you see him lead the team to victory.

He is a leader, that boy, and it comes to him naturally, unlike for your own shy character. You admire him almost as much as you love him, though neither of those are anything you would ever admit to anyone.

It is the color, in a photo that he posts on Instagram, of the dress of a girl standing next to him. Her black hair cascades down her shoulders in a waterfall of smoothness, and there is a silver clip in it shaped like a flower. When you ask him about her, he gushes to you excitedly about how she is his girlfriend.

The color is blurred as tears begin to pool in your eyes, so blurred that it consumes you, envelopes you, haunts you. But you nod, and as you mutter some excuse about classes and run away, you do not let anyone see you.

It is the color of the shrubbery, and the grass, around the outside of a pub that you go to a couple of nights later. You tell yourself that your sudden pull to the glasses has nothing to do with him, but even you refuse to believe yourself when you say that. And, as you take shots of whiskey and scotch and vodka, as you dance to music and unabashedly belt out the lyrics, as you keep slamming money on the table and pouring the alcohol inside of you, it is the color on many people's shirts, it is the color of the posters on the walls, it is the color all over the room, all over the people, all over your mind, attacking you like some sort of mythical creature.

It is the color of the money that you slam on the table. You barely manage to keep it there.

Another shot.

It is the color on their shirts. It is the color of the posters.

It is the color of the grass and the trees.

It is the color of her dress.  _Whose_ dress? You are losing control.

It is the color of his uniform. It is the color of his eyes. Only they are different.

More money. Another shot.

It is the color. It is the color. It is the color, it is, it is, it is, it-

It.

It is the color of his car. He is taking you by the arm, and he is leading you to the backseat, whispering something encouraging along the way. But you are too drunk to tell what it is.

You are drunk. So drunk. For some reason, that is funny to you.

It is not funny to him. He shows no reaction but continuing to drive.

It is the color of so many things in the city. So many neon signs advertising one thing or another. So many uniforms of road construction workers. So many lights meaning "Go."

He drives.

There is no music playing. You don't know why he turned it off.

He drives.

He is saying something, and it takes you a minute to piece the words together and another to figure out what they mean.

He drives.

Something about his girlfriend. Oh, yes - they broke up.  _You_ broke up twice, and once a girl pushed you away because you kissed her.

You want to forget. You want to forget.

But you can't.

He drives. You realize that he is driving you to the hospital. He leads you in, he explains some things to the nurses, and then he leaves.

That is as far as you go. And it is as far as you should go.

It is the color of him. But it is not the color of you.

 

**Blue**

It is the color of the sky.

You know that's a cliché thing to say, and you had always been taught to avoid clichés, but goddammit, you can't help it, not when your entire damn life is playing out like some sort of Greek tragedy.

Four times now. You're pretty sure that's not normal. And yet when  _he_ comes into your life, small and innocent and happy, something inside of you give the faintest of whispers that maybe, just maybe, the cycle will end with him.

It is the color of his tie. Sometimes when he's nervous, he pulls on it, and as you become even closer with him, you use it to pull him up to you and wrap him in a hug.

It is the color of an ice formation - multiple, actually - somewhere deep in the Arctic Circle. This is not common knowledge, you know, but you will never forget how every morning, he flies into the workplace like a bullet, phone in hand, some sort of news article open.

It is the color of Uranus. It is the color of some endangered bird that scientists are trying to save. It is the color of a beautiful stone made of crystal.

And it is the color of his eyes when he talks about them, so bright and so happy, and although you have never been interested in science, you look forward to these bubbly talks every day.

When he asks you if you like science, you are not lying when you say yes. You will never again see it the same way.

It is the color of you when he kisses you, bleeding through the air from him. It is the color of shock, of breathlessness, of bliss.

It is the color of love. It is the color of purity. It is the color of his hand on yours when you explain, of your own free will, all the bottles in your basement, and the color of his head on your shoulder as he tells you that he will always be there. It is the color of the kisses that he plants all over your face, and the color of an arm slipping around your back, and the color of a slow jam playing in the background as you hold each other in your pajamas and step from side to side in the tiled kitchen.

It is the color of his laugh. To you, it is like a favorite song.

 

It is the color of the nametag of the new boss. It is the color of the nametags of  _all_ of the bosses, but for some reason he stands out to you the most.

Maybe it's his bulging muscles, or the fact that he is frustratingly barely taller than you. Maybe it's how his views on the vision of the company, and his views on everything else for that matter, are drastically different from your own, and so  _wrong,_ that every day, you take time out of your day to come into his office and fight him.

Or maybe it's how your boyfriend, your beautiful sweet boyfriend, is too busy with his own work to pay much attention to you. And you see the wedding ring on the new boss's finger, and the marks from it when he takes it off, but...

It is the color of your dress. He slips it off so easily, and the bites that he leaves on your collarbone while doing so force a moan from a part of you that you didn't even know existed. It is the color of your panting, and the clatter as office supplies fall off his desk and onto the floor, and of the darkness that eclipses your vision and your hearing and all your other senses.

It is the color of your boyfriend's face when he opens the door and comes in. It is a worrying color, and you try to go to him, but he pushes you away and runs, making noises that will echo around your head for the rest of your life. Distantly, you remember another color, and another girl, and the collision of memories forces you into a wail.

Your past loves had warned you about others. But no one had ever warned you about yourself.

 

**Indigo**

It is the color of the dress that you wear to your new job interview.

You switch jobs. You can't handle the pain anymore, of looking at your boss and your ex-boyfriend, of the guilt and the terror and the pain clawing at your insides.

It's your own fault. But that doesn't stop you from staring blankly at you keyboard and wondering how things could have gone differently, wondering not only about your newest ex but thinking even further back, even contemplating the beginning of your life.

It is the color of the jeans that you can't bear to put on. They are too constricting, too much effort for your shattering body. You start wearing sweatpants. They are the only thing you can manage.

It is the color of the ocean. A couple of your first kisses have been at that beach, and at the time, you wanted that moment to last forever. But now you stop going there. It is too poisoned with inerasable memories.

It is the color of the night sky. You used to find it calming to stare at it for a long time, but now, nothing you do helps. So you stop.

It is the color, in a deep, rich hue, of all the effort that you need to put in to not fall apart.

 

It is the color of her suit.

 _She_ is a new business woman, significantly older than you, and you have been appointed as her secretary. As far as you can tell, she is unmarried, but she pours so much effort into her work that you're not sure she's even seriously considering a relationship.

Not that you would want one, anyway. You think that you would much rather take a break from romance for a while.

 

It is the color of her fingernails. They are cleanly painted, and you admire them. You stare at them for a long time as she places her hand on yours.

It is the color of her voice, so rich and so smooth, and you hear it more and more as she tells you about yourself. She singles you out above her other secretaries, and you can't for the life of you figure out why.

Whatever she tells you to do, you do. You file papers. You answer the phone. You run errands.

You kiss her, right on her lips, and she slams you against the wall and undresses you. And when you shove her away and tell her no, she smacks you, and her fingernails sting.

If you don't listen to her, she could ruin you. Everything is as simple as that.

It is the color of the castle that you had been building up, putting pieces of your soul back together, even showing the inklings of forgiving yourself, and it is the color of the hurricane of her as she shatters it without a second thought.

She degrades you. But she is someone, an actual human being who is actually interested in you, so you stay in spite of yourself.

But still, it is the color of the night sky on the day that you drive away, as far away from your home as possible, and the color of the one small suitcase that you take with you.

It is the color of the tears pouring out of your eyes, barely visible in the reflection of the windshield.

What have you become?

 

**Purple**

It is the color of the couch in your new house. It was already there when the owners left, and although it clashes horribly with the walls and the other furniture, you are forced to keep it there.

You are much too poor to afford getting anything new. You are much too poor for most things.

It is the color of your bedspread. You see that color a lot over the next couple of weeks after the move. You are covered in blankets and pillows, and there is a box of cereal by your side, and that is the position that you are in, unmoving, unwilling to do anything else but stay there.

It is the color of the label on the box one morning when you realize that you are out. You don’t know why, but that forces you up and moving to go outside and get the mail. It takes effort, too much effort for your impossibly weak body, and you almost collapse on the way back to your doorstep.

That small act makes you feel better. You decide to do one productive thing a day.

The next morning you make yourself some breakfast. Scrambled eggs and bacon.

The afternoon after that you take out the trash.

The day after that – it takes you the whole day – you clean your living room.

That evening – you are shocked by your productivity – you drive to the grocery store and buy yourself some food.

It is the color of your phone case. You are too poor to afford an alarm clock, so you are forced to use your phone to set an alarm for 6:30 AM.

It is the color of your running shoes. You haven’t worn them since high school, and they're a bit cramped, but you don’t care about that, not when you had the sudden urge, which you are going to follow without a second thought, to go for a run.

They pound against the pavement, colliding together with your pants and your gasps. It is the sweetest sound that you have ever heard.

You are horribly out of shape, and judging by the way your belly is shaking, you've gained a lot of loose fat. But you keep running.

You would much rather go back home, curl yourself up in your millions of blankets, eat the cereal that you bought the last evening. But you keep running.

And somewhere along the way, blended with yellow and black and white and blue, it is the color of the sunrise.

You gasp when you see it. You haven’t watched the sunrise in such a long time, and you are shocked by how startling it is, how bright and how beautiful and how encouraging. Even though you know that the thought is completely irrational, it seems to be telling you that everything will be okay.

That _you_ will be okay.

You keep running.

It is the color of the couch that you take pictures of and attempt to sell on Craigslist. It is the color, in a softer hue, of the curtains that you buy for your guest room. It is the color of the company that you decide to apply to work at. It is the color of so many things, of so much effort pushing its way into your life, and god _damn_ does it feel amazing to end this spell of depression that you've been living in.

It is the color of the bottle of alcohol that you stare that. You are tempted to buy it, to celebrate this new chapter in your life, and you are sure that this time, you will not be addicted.

But then you shake your head. You've had enough alcohol for a lifetime.

It is the color of the grapes you buy instead. You remember how much you loved to eat them.

It may be the color at the end of the rainbow, but to you, it will always be the color of beginning.

 

It is the color of the flag of asexuality, right there with black, white, and gray. According to the forums that you browse on your laptop, being asexual is different from being aromantic; the former means that you do not feel sexual attraction, while the latter means the same, only for romance. The forums also say that you can be one or the other, or you can be both.

You’re not sure which one you are. But the forums say that that's okay, too.

 _You are valid,_ you remind yourself every day, a piece of advice that one of your new friends gave you. _And you will be okay._

You look up from your computer at the painting that you hung up in your room. It is of a rainbow in a grassy meadow.

_Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Indigo._

_Purple._

They are painful reminders. But they are also symbols of what you have been through.

_You are valid. And you will be okay._

And you will be.


End file.
